Truffled to Death (A Chocolate Covered Mystery) (9 page)

“Out!” I rushed over to get in her face. “We’re closed.” Too late I noticed Reese had an overly large pen in her pocket that everyone knew was a camera. “Really, Reese? You’re back to illegally taping your neighbors? So you’re bouncing back down to rock bottom in the tabloid journalism food chain?”

“Michelle,” Erica chided as Reese drew in a quick breath.

“We are in a public place and you have no expectation of privacy,” Reese said.

“We’re in a place that is
closed
, where I have all the privacy I want,” I shot back at her. Then I pulled the “pen” out of her pocket and looked for the power switch.

“How do you turn this thing off?” I asked.

“Give that back,” Reese said.

I tossed it toward the door where it fell onto the welcome mat. “We are not answering any of your questions. We are not working with you. We are not sharing information on our invest—” I cut myself off but it was too late. I couldn’t believe I did that!

“Ah-ha!” Reese pointed her finger at me. “You
are
investigating his murder.”

“Reese, please.” Erica tried to fix the situation. “Surely a journalist of your caliber is aware of the chance that very dangerous people may have killed Dr. Moody.”

Reese stared at her.

Erica continued. “If they murdered an eminent man like the professor in such a horrific manner, then they are
willing to kill anyone who gets in their way. You need to be very, very careful.” Erica sounded even snottier when she was lying.

Reese didn’t seem to fall for it. “The items were that valuable?”

Erica nodded. “They were worth over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Reese was not the type to give up. “Is that what they’d sell for on the black market? That doesn’t seem like enough money for someone to kill over.”

And what would be enough money?
I wanted to say, but Erica seemed to be considering the question.

“No one will know the true motive until the police find out who did it and why,” Erica said.

Reese pounced on that. “Would art thieves really come to western Maryland for that much money? Or does it make more sense that someone connected to the whole thing, who had a motive other than money, did it?”

Maybe she wasn’t as stupid as she looked.

Erica turned her hands up in an
it’s not up to us
gesture. “I know from my brother that journalists are more courageous than others, in a way I don’t understand. But Michelle and I are not the type to risk our lives when the police are much better equipped to handle this.” She continued while Reese gave her a sour look, trying to figure out if she was telling the truth. “I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that the FBI gets involved.”

Whoa. Erica was getting good at lying. I almost believed her myself.

“Fine,” Reese said flatly. Then she took something out
of her pocket and slammed it down on the counter. “Maybe that will pique your interest.”

It was a flash drive.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •

T
he flash drive contained about a gazillion photos from the reception. Erica sat at our kitchen table scanning them while I cleaned up dinner dishes. We’d picked up a half-pepperoni (for me) half-black-olive (for Erica) pizza from Zelini’s on the way home, and I was pleasantly stuffed.

“You really believe Reese gave this to us because contractually she can’t use them?” I asked. “Or is she going to say we stole them or something?” Reese would never voluntarily share her leads with anyone, especially us.

“No one needs to know we have them.” Erica frowned. “She probably views this as a goodwill gesture so we’ll help her.” She clicked through the photos, stopping occasionally to enlarge one and look at it closely. “Look. Here’s one of you.”

I looked over her shoulder. Reese had taken a shot of me staring at the bowl. The look of blatant longing surprised me. But my hair was totally under control for once that night.

“Did you ever wonder why the professor wanted the reception at our store?” I asked when she’d moved on to a photo of him in his tux. “Did he want to taunt you or something?”

She paused, considering. “Vivian said that she chose Chocolates and Chapters.”

“But?” I prompted.

“I guess we’ll never know.”

“Why did you say yes?” I asked.

“It was supposed to be good for the store.” She squinted at an image and then enlarged it to fill the screen.

“What?” I asked. “Do you see something?” It was a photo of a short, wide vase, its color much more faded than the others in the display case. But it was still gorgeous.

“Hold on.” She enlarged the photo even further and focused on some designs along the bottom.

I waited impatiently.

“This could be it.” Erica turned the laptop for me to see a photo of Santiago Diaz staring intently at the display case, and then another of him frowning into Reese’s camera.

“What’s he looking at?”

She ignored me, reading the press release the professor had sent out that detailed some of the pieces. She clicked on the vase photo again, this time enlarging the little card beside it that provided basic information. “I have to look up this glyph. Hold on.” She pushed back from the table and ran upstairs.

“What’s a glyph?” I called after her and stared at the computer screen.

“It’s a symbol, of sorts,” she yelled. She rushed back downstairs. “In this case, it might be a very important one.”

She showed me the book—
Chronicle of the Maya Kings and Queens
—and then opened it on the kitchen table. “So there’s an extra glyph on this vase.” She compared it to a page in the book several times, before sitting straight up and staring at me, looking stunned.

“What?” I couldn’t remember seeing her so shocked.

“If what I think is true,” she said, “this vase is worth far, far more than the amount the professor valued it.”

“How much more?” I asked.

“Instead of about forty thousand, it could be worth . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“How much?” I insisted.

She shrugged. “A million?”

“A million dollars!” I shrieked.

I
sat down on a kitchen chair, hard. “We had a million-dollar vase in our store?”

Erica shushed me. “If I’m right, this vase is something the archaeologists have been trying to find for decades.”

“Could the professor have made a mistake?” I asked.

She shook her head. “It’s unlikely. He’s an expert. He must have misidentified it on purpose.” She stared at the photo, obviously trying to analyze what this new information meant.

“Why would he do that?” If I’d just landed a million-dollar vase, I’d be shouting it to the stars. I pulled my chair closer so I could see the photo better.

“Hold on.” She pulled up other photos and I saw one of my bowl flash by. “These photos went out with the press release announcing the deal with the Rivers. Here’s one of the vase. It’s positioned so that it doesn’t show the extra glyph.”

“What could he possibly gain from hiding that?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe he was worried that the Rivers would sell it rather than donate it.” She pulled her eyes away from the photo with effort. “Maybe he planned to reveal its true worth when it was firmly in the museum’s collection.”

“Can you show the photo to someone else to be sure?” I asked. “Someone who won’t blab.”

“Yes.” She returned to the photo of Santiago staring at the vase and bit her lip. Even in a photo, his expression seemed dangerous. “But I’m not sure I want to . . . involve anyone else.”

“Maybe someone who lives far away?” I asked. Far enough away to avoid international art traffickers.

She took a deep breath. “I have a friend in Africa who might be able to help.” She opened an email and sent him the photo along with a message.

“What would we do if it is worth that much more?” I asked.

“We’d do the right thing and tell Detective Lockett.” She shut down the photo application and opened a spreadsheet outlining our suspects. “If anyone else knew about this . . . it opens up even more reasons for the robbery. And the professor’s murder.”

“You don’t really believe the BS you told Reese, right?” I asked. While I probably should be afraid of anyone who killed the professor, ruthless international art traffickers terrified me much more. “Wait. Do you think Reese knew about that vase? And that’s why she gave us the flash drive?” I couldn’t imagine she’d be that smart.

Erica tapped her pen on the table. “I don’t know how she
could. She’d have to pinpoint the one photo that showed the glyph and meant something. And she’d have to know more about Maya art than most people.”

Reese was definitely not an expert on anything except for ridiculous conspiracy theories. “So she just randomly wanted us to look for possible clues?”

“It was probably just a fishing expedition.” Erica looked over our suspect list. “I still can’t help but believe that someone who knew the professor stole the items and then killed him.”

“Even if that vase is worth as much as you think?” I pointed out. “Maybe the professor was involved in the robbery and then had a problem with whoever he was working with.”

“Then we still have to figure out who that was,” she said, but I could practically see her brain working overtime.

“Or maybe his death is completely unrelated to the Maya stuff,” I said. “He was a jerk. Maybe he pissed someone off we don’t know about.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Let’s find out why he changed from being a professor to a museum curator. Hold on.” She clicked away on her computer. “I heard of a new website. It’s like Rate My Professors but without the moderator controls.”

“That exists?” I asked. “A professor gossip site? You have to take that with a grain of salt. Anyone who didn’t get the grade they wanted could put whatever they want there.”

“I’m not sure how seriously anyone takes it, but maybe . . .” She took her time reading while I picked up the book on Maya kings and queens.

Before I could turn a page, Erica looked up at me, dismayed. “Oh no. Someone accused him of sexual harassment.”
She clicked the mouse a few times. “And some other women said he did the same thing to them.”

“Are you sure?”

“This is terrible. Eight students?” She got agitated and stood up to pace. “And there could be more who never came forward. I could have prevented this. If I had just stood up to him, and reported him, a few years ago.”

I turned the laptop around to scan what they said, my stomach dropping at every entry. It was textbook harassment, starting with sexual innuendo and graduating to grade manipulation and outright groping.

“How could he get away with that in this day and age?” I asked, outraged.

Erica stood at the window, rubbing her temple with her fingers. “Something was probably done, but quietly, so as not to hurt the school’s reputation.”

“But he didn’t do . . . that to you. How could you know what he was capable of?” I said.

“I could’ve had him fired two years ago,” she said flatly. “I had all the proof I needed.”

“He is responsible for all that. Not you,” I said. “But if it’s true, then it explains why he was at the museum and not at Eastern University anymore.”

“I should’ve done something,” she murmured.

I had to get her attention off of her guilt. “One of these women, LibrarySophie, is really angry. Do you think we should talk to her?”

She straightened her shoulders. “Not yet.”

“But there’s a lot of rage in there,” I said. Talk about motive. “Maybe we should tell Detective Lockett?”

“Absolutely not,” Erica said in her determined voice.
“Those women have been victimized enough. It’s too late to make sure Professor Moody never does this again. Now, let’s change gears and get to work on our suspects.”

It wasn’t like Erica to leave a rock unturned. Or even a shiny little pebble, if it could reveal something important. And this was practically a boulder, potentially hiding a bunch of slimy, worm-like information.

“Okay, but maybe you should at least ask Lavender if she knows anything about this website.” I held my hand up to keep her from arguing. “Don’t tell her anything that’s on it. Just that some students made some crazy accusations and you want to find out what she knows about them.”

She frowned at me.

“If we’re going to investigate, we have to examine every aspect.” I kept my voice quiet and reasonable. “You know that.”

Her shoulders lowered. “Okay. I’ll call Lavender. But that’s all we’re doing right now.”

I reread LibrarySophie’s comment.
I say we all meet up with him and KICK HIS ASS!!! so he never does this again. He deserves that and more.

Maybe one of them really did make sure Dr. Moody never did it again. I kept that thought to myself.

“Jake said our favorite waitress Iris knows something about Deirdre,” I said. “Do you have time to eat lunch at the diner tomorrow?”

“I think we have to,” Erica said, still worrying.

I’d have to work harder to get her mind off what those girls wrote. “What about Lavender’s murder quotient? Do you think she finally became jealous enough to knock him off?” If I were her, I’d claim insanity due to Stockholm syndrome. I kept that to myself.

Erica considered it for a moment and then shook her head. “If she hadn’t come here looking for him, maybe. But I doubt that she’s that great of an actor.”

“The odds are incredibly low that Reese is right about anything, but what if it was someone at the museum?” I asked. “What would they have to gain?”

“Not Wink,” Erica protested. “But I’ll try to get him to answer a few questions about the other museum employees.” She typed a note into her computer. “By the way, I volunteered our living room Thursday night for some costume planning. Jolene’s going to start making the props for the flash mob at the school.”

“No problem,” I said, looking at the list of suspects on the door.

We both heard a car screech to a halt in front of our house. I stood up and saw Bobby get out of his police car and come up the porch stairs, his steps deliberate and his face determined. Too bad we hadn’t locked the front door, because I barely had time to slam the pantry doors closed and move away, when he walked directly to the same spot and opened the doors. Our list of suspects was right there in black and white. Well, whiteboard.

He turned to face Erica. “You need to trust me to do my job.”

“I do,” she said.

“No, you don’t,” he said in a voice that would piss me off if I were Erica. I just hoped she could hear the hurt underneath.

“Um, I’ll just . . .” They didn’t hear me. I escaped upstairs to Erica’s room, wanting to both listen to what they were saying and bury my head under pillows in case it ended badly. It felt like parents arguing.

Too soon, I could hear the front door open and angry stomps down the porch stairs. That couldn’t be good.

I walked down slowly and peeked into the kitchen. “What happened?”

She sat in the same place with a troubled expression. “We agreed to disagree.”

“Did he threaten to throw you in the pokey to keep you safe?” I joked.

“No,” she said. “But he wants to . . . take a break.”

I sat down, stunned. Anyone could see he was hooked on her. “What? Why?”

She frowned. “I’m not exactly sure. Something about me not trusting him to be smart enough to solve this case on his own.”

“Oh,” I said. “That again.” I could totally imagine being intimidated by her. I paused. “How did he even know about our list on the pantry door?”

“Lavender saw it when she was here looking for the professor,” she said.

“He seemed way more mad at this investigation than the last one.”

“I think because we’re dating,” she said, as if figuring it out as she spoke. “
Were
dating. And maybe he heard about my . . .”

“Booty call?”

She winced. “Yes. So learning that we’ve been asking questions bothered him even more.”

I sat silently for a moment. “Does that mean we should stop?”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “We can find out things the police can’t.” And then she said her most favorite words. “Let’s make a plan.”

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •

T
he reassuring smell of sweet pancakes and hamburgers frying on the griddle greeted us as soon as we walked into the West Riverdale Diner for lunch the next day. The owner believed in offering breakfast all day, and keeping the food cheap, fast and greasy.

Iris stood by the host stand. “It’s about ta-ime you come ’n seen me,” she said, her bright blue eyes snapping. Iris had been a waitress at the diner since I was a kid. Outside of the diner, she smoked like a fiend and tanned herself until she was bronze year-round.

“Sorry, Iris,” Erica and I said in unison.

She grunted as she grabbed two menus, their cracked plastic coating yellowing with age, and led us to our usual booth. Where the Big Drip had retro diner décor, this place was authentic diner through and through. “Yourn spose to be here within twenty-four hours of breakin’ news,” Iris admonished.

“Sorry,” we both said again.

“And that a-hole gittin’ hisself kilt sure is breakin’ news, ain’t it?” she asked.

“Sure is,” I said. I found all accents totally contagious, especially Iris’s strong southern Virginia one.

She took a minute to get us our diet sodas. “Not that he din’t deserve sumpin’ pretty awful, just not them vultures.” She paused as if considering that. “Well, maybe even them.”

I did not want to talk about vultures before my lunch. “What have you heard about him?”

“Well, he ain’t been here so long so’s I know anything.
Jus’ ’at he came in here ’n’ yelled about a dirty glass, so I done tole him to leave.”

“Who was he with?” Erica asked.

“That purple woman, poor thing,” Iris said. “She tried to talk some sense into him but he din’t listen.” She left to take an order from a group of construction workers who sat at the counter.

Erica waited patiently until she came back. “Do you know Deirdre?”

Iris raised her painted-on eyebrows. “Not nobody knows Deirdre. She hardly goes anywhere. Fixin’ to be one of those agoraphobics, I believe.”

“Is she afraid to go outside?” Erica asked.

“Nah.” Iris slid her tiny butt into the booth beside Erica, facing out so she could keep an eye on the diner. “She git herself into some trouble when she was young ’n’ her mom put her on a tight leash. Just kept it up, I guess. Too much if you ask me. She needs a life.”

“Did you hear she was fired by the Rivers?” I asked, hoping Jake had been right about Iris knowing something.

“Iris,” a man in a Baltimore Orioles cap yelled. “My waffles are up.”

“Hold your horses, you old coot,” she shot back and didn’t move.

He sighed and went behind the counter to get them himself. Everyone knew that Iris was not above slapping an established customer upside the head if he gave her a hard time.

She turned to face us and talked quietly. “I’m gonna tell you sumpin’ I ain’t tole nobody, especially that chief. I heard Deirdre tell her mom she ain’t stole nothin’ and Vivian knows it.”

Erica kept her voice low as well. “Why didn’t she go to the police?”

Iris shrugged. “Those Rivers kept everything private and maybe it rubbed off on her.”